


Tenacity.

by AlyssaKendall



Category: Hockey RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: (Vincent Lecavalier/Brad Richards) - Freeform, Best Friends, Drinking & Talking, First Kiss, M/M, Slow Build, Soup, Tampa Bay Lightning, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-14
Updated: 2013-03-14
Packaged: 2017-12-05 06:00:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/719688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlyssaKendall/pseuds/AlyssaKendall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The problem is, Steven has a thing for Martin, and he doesn’t even know it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tenacity.

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** Not mine, don’t own. Additionally, the whole fic was written with “Helena Beat” by Foster the People on repeat, so as a result, lyrics seemed to fit in various places. I don’t own those, either.  
>  **A/N:** I may be a little too amused by my own ability to make fun of Zdeno Chara in every section. Takes place during the 2010-2011 playoff season.

_You play the game but you kind of cut  
’Cause you’re coming down hard and your joints are all stuck._

1\. 

He’s running drills with a few of the guys when he’s put on a line beside him. Glancing down, Martin’s not as small in person as he looks on the screen. On skates, he thinks, everyone is a little bit taller. At least Martin is every bit as good as the media portrays him to be, unlike some douchebags who get all the publicity based on their size and don’t have the stats to back it up. A specific Bruins captain crosses his mind, and he shrugs it off just in time to realize he should be paying attention. Steven nods absent-mindedly, half-listening as Martin reviews the set-up plan for a play on Emery with him and Downie.

“I got this,” Steven says as he leans over, putting his stick to the ice. He chews on the corner of his mouth guard and then waits for Martin to nod. He quickly takes his position, ice spraying from his skates as he cruises into a halt. Receiving a quick pass, and shooting into the top left corner of the goal. Old Man Roloson hardly expects it, let alone sees it. The puck catches air before sinking into the net. He looks up to Martin with a grin.

It takes a moment before he realizes that a few of the other guys have stopped to watch. From the bench he can hear Vinny speaking, “Nice shot, Stammer, but don’t get over-confident.” He continues, asking Martin to try the same play from the opposite side of the rink. 

It’s when Steven’s eyes trace back to Martin that he sees that rare, impudent grin. A small roll of the eyes as Vinny speaks and he responds with an “absolutely, okay.” His eyes connect with Martin’s, and he can tell they’re both thinking the same thing. It’s at that exact moment that Steven realizes that being on a line with the other alternate captain is one of the best things that can happen to him as part of this team, and that there’s no one else with whom he’d rather be.

 

__ Sometimes life it takes you by the hair  
It pulls you down before you know it  
It’s gone and you’re dead again.

2.

It only seems to go from there. Practices, games, and victories lead only to after-parties, drinks, and crashing on random couches and hotel beds. Martin may be in the running for a Lady Byng Trophy, but there’s no rule in hockey that says that the most gentlemanly player can’t also have a glass of wine at dinner. Or a shot of Crown Royal after scoring the game winning goal. Steven isn’t really one to get himself into drunken debauchery, but compared to Martin, even his nights seem a little wild.

It’s a dangerous win against New York that he finds himself sitting close to Martin in a swanky Manhattan bar. The whole establishment closed off for VIP admittance only. Beautiful men and women line the walls as players from both teams make their rounds, ordering cocktails and hors d’oeuvres. Steven drinks a whiskey sour as Martin sips on something clear and fizzy, two limes resting on the rim. 

“Where’s Vinny?” he asks, playing with the straw.

“Off with Richie, somewhere, no doubt,” Martin responds with a smile. No hesitation. Steven raises an eyebrow. “You have to know they’re old friends by now.” He pats him on the shoulder.

“Oh, right,” Steven nods. There’s a pause, but the whiskey is well in his system now, and he can’t stop himself from asking, earnestly “…does anyone ever make jokes about it?”

“What, Brad and Vinny?” There’s that smile again, as Martin can’t help but chuckle, and Steven does too. “All the good jokes have already been made, don’t worry. They’re the best of friends; they’ve known each other since they were fourteen. It was hard for both of them to let go. A tough business we’re in.” 

“Yeah,” Steven nods, continuing to drink. He knew about his captain’s friendship, but he never really thought about it in that sense. The National Hockey League has such an esteemed, honorable air to it. Truly the best in the world. It’s not often that Steven or anyone else really considers some of the struggles they have aside from being in the road so often. Being traded like a pawn, a mere object? For money, no less. Like some kind of fucked up form of prostitution. Yet it happens all the time, and no one bats an eye. They’re the best in the world, but it’s still not enough.

“So they really look forward to their time together, eh?”

“They cherish it,” Martin nods. 

“What about you, Marty?” 

He’s given a raised eyebrow and a genuine smile. Lips pressed together. “I don’t follow. ‘What about me?’ Perhaps it’s the gin, but can you explain?” It almost sounds like he’s talking to a reporter. But his smile is contagious, and now Steven is smiling too.

“I mean, do you have any friends you’ve had to let go? Like best friends?” 

Martin looks down, suddenly fascinated with his drink. A sip off the side of the glass. There’s a pause while he squeezes the lime and stirs it with the straw. “Perrin,” he says, without looking. “Éric Perrin. I don’t know if you’d remember him. He plays in Finland now.”

“I know him,” Steven perks up. “I mean, I don’t know him like personally or anything, but I know who he is, what he’s done. I didn’t know he was your best friend though.”

Martin looks up and smiles at him. “I’d also say Tim Thomas. And for what it’s worth, Vinny, too.” 

All Steven can do is nod. “That’s… _cool._ ” A dumb thing to say, he’s sure of it. Showing his age, no doubt. But he’s smiling and Martin’s smiling, and all Steven can think is how badly he wants to change the subject.

“Let’s change the subject!” he says. It comes out a little too peppy. Martin laughs, and he slinks an arm around Steven’s shoulder. Instinctively, Steven’s arm is around Martin’s waist. The conversation that follows is something along the lines of air travel, and the amusement in watching some of the taller players work to fit in their seats. Again, a specific Bruins captain crosses his mind, but this time he just laughs it off.

 

_ Yeah yeah, and it’s okay  
I tie my hands up to a chair so I don’t fall that way _

3.

Steven has no idea when it happened, but suddenly he feels like he has a purpose. Something he _must_ do. If Martin drops something, he’s there to pick it up. If Martin wants something from the lockers, he’s there to go get it for him. If Martin needs a spotter during a workout, he’s there to spot. If Martin is in another part of the room, his eyes occasionally glance over to him. Every time his phone notifies that he has a text, a part of him hopes that it’s from Martin.

He tells himself to relax. That he needs to focus in order to do his job, but that’s part of the problem. To do his job, he needs Martin to do his. He relies on Downie, too, but not in the way he relies on Martin. Downie’s barely the middle man. Martin has the eye, the set-up. Steven is the executioner. That’s how this happened, he tells himself. The game. They need each other to play the game. They wouldn’t be near repetition of the ’03-’04 Stanley Cup Playoffs if it wasn’t for his and Martin’s abilities to read each other, to sense how to set-up, how to skate and move and put pucks in the net. It’s hockey. It isn’t him, and it certainly isn’t Marty.

At least, that’s what he finds himself explaining to Vinny as he looks around the locker room. A few of the guys sit there, wrapping their sticks in tape, fixing their gear, and glancing at their phones. “Where’s Marty?” he asks as Vinny practices taking a practice shot at the air.

“In the bathroom…” comes the suspicious response. “Are you planning to follow him in there, too?” A few quiet chuckles emit from the others.

Steven’s eyes narrow. “Hilarious.” 

“He’s fine,” Vinny adds. “In the five minutes he’s been without you, nothing terrible has happened. He’s a grown man, Stammer. Relax.”

“I just want to ask him a question about his plan for dealing with Chara this Thursday,” Steven responds.

“I plan to address a team plan of action in the second half of the practice,” Vinny replies. He goes back to taking another shot at the air before frowning, turning the stick upside-down and examining the blade.

“Okay, but I just wanted to see if Marty—”

“I said I’d address it!” 

“Address what?” Martin’s voice cuts between the both of theirs. “And what is it that we’re seeing if Marty has?” He glances from Steven to Vinny.

“Nothing,” Steven murmurs.

“No, go ahead,” Martin says. His voice is as fair and assertive as ever. 

“A plan for addressing Chara on Thursday,” Vinny speaks up before Steven can try to redirect him again. Figures. “I told him I’d take care of it in the second half of practice.”

“I’d say that sounds reasonable. Right, Steve?”

Steven nods. There’s really nothing else he can say at this point. He’s trapped between his captain and his alternate, and there’s really no room for him to make any sudden movements. From behind him, he can hear Vinny agree. Rather than press the matter, he begins to walk to his locker. He’s ready to dismiss the whole thing when he hears Vinny speaking, quietly: _“he’s always hanging off your shoulder.”_

“I am not!” Steven pipes up as he unlaces his skates.

“You aren’t what?” Vinny responds.

“I’m not hanging off anyone’s shoulder! For god’s sake, Vinny, you’d think that I’d be allowed to ask one of the other captains on my line about a game plan in the Eastern Conference Finals! For the guy that wears the C, you sure don’t seem concerned that your highest scoring line meshes well!” His words are high-pitched, and come out a little more than accusatory. He can see a bit of embarrassment in Vinny’s face. 

“You’re right, Steven. I should be. My apologies.” A typical Vincent Lecavalier response.

The other men in the locker room are staring, eyes darting back and forth between the three men. Nate’s whispering loudly in Teddy’s ear. From behind the captain, Marty is smiling, sucking in his lower lip. It catches Steven’s eye, and he can’t help but stare. Even as he nods and speaks. “It’s no big deal.”

He’s still staring when Vinny turns his head to Marty and asks, “You’re still coming over after, right?”

Steven’s heart falls into his stomach when Marty’s smile broadens, “Definitely. I can just ride with you if you don’t mind?”

Their conversation continues as Steven looks away, feeling his cheeks flush beet red. The only label he can put on this feeling is ‘jealousy.’ Or maybe ‘confusion.’ It’s at that exact moment that he realizes that Vinny was onto something with his earlier comments, and perhaps there’s a little more to his side of the relationship with Martin that he really needs to recognize.

_You know those days when you want to just choose  
To not get out of bed, you're lost in your head again._

4\. 

“I don’t feel well.” He’s saying the words to Boucher who nods with what might be a look of contempt or a look of concern. None of them are really ever able to read his expressions.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“My stomach. I’m pretty sure that my lunch is planning a great escape,” he mutters. It’s not a total lie. The nervousness in his stomach is upsetting him. The fact of the matter is that he absolutely can’t focus on whatever he’s supposed to be doing. And for being one of the men that’s always there between the early hours at the asscrack of dawn and way past the evening rush hour on his days off, Steven’s pretty sure he’s entitled to a mental health day. Or at least, that’s what he’s calling it.

“What, did you start you period?” Nate chuckles from the bench. Downie shoves him. “You were fine half an hour ago.”

“And now I’m not,” he snaps back. Nate only continues to grin before flipping down his visor and gliding onto the ice.

“Have you spoken with the trainers?” Boucher asks cautiously. Naturally, it’s an argument with him. 

Steven nods slowly. It’s a lie. “It’s just that, if this is more than undercooked chicken, I wanna be strong enough to play in all of our games.” 

Boucher can’t argue with that. 

He tries not to think on his drive home; this isn’t anything he hasn’t known before. The skies are darkening with heavy clouds and he can see the lightning striking in the air. Focus on that, focus on hockey, he tells himself. But it’s no use. If he were able to do that, he would’ve made it through practice. 

Originally he plans to jog through his neighborhood, but once his car is parked, the heavy rain starts to pour, and there’s no telling if it plans to last for several minutes or several hours. Instead, he finds himself on the treadmill in his living room, flipping through channels random sitcoms and daytime TV. After forty-five minutes he decides he’s deserving of a break long enough to actually catch his breath. He plops himself down on the couch, adjusting the volume on his TV.

He has no intentions of sleeping, but the thoughts running through his mind are exhausting. Marty. Vinny. Playoffs. Bruins. Chara. Marty. Nate. Lightning. _Marty._ His eyes slowly close, and he’ll open them in five minutes, he thinks. Really. His breathing steadies, and the remote drops from his hand to the floor. He doesn’t spend enough time on this couch to appreciate how comfortable it really is.

He’s whisked off somewhere, onto one of the beaches. There’s not a soul in sight, so it can’t be Clearwater. Not enough rocks for it to be Dunedin. Maybe it’s Fred Howard? He isn’t sure. The air is warm and humid, but the sun is slowly sinking lower toward the water. Steven can’t complain; the beach is lovely, but the direct sunlight and the salt water are a deadly combination for his fair complexion. _What beach am I on?_

And it doesn’t matter, because Marty’s there. And he’s smiling at him, sitting beside him on a blanket, moving closer as they talk and laugh. He isn’t sure what the conversation is about. What he is sure about is that suddenly, Martin is kissing him. Mouths together, lips apart, tongues pressing inside. Hot and wet and perfect. Steven groans as he tilts his head, letting Martin get a deeper kiss. Hands tracing up and down each other’s sides, they pull themselves in closer, facing each other. Daringly, Steven moves his hand to the hem of Martin’s shirt, and he’s tugging it off, over his head. Moments later, the favor is returned as Martin does the same for him. Shirtless, Martin straddles over him, kneeling with Steven’s legs between his. Grinding as they resume their hard kisses, moaning. 

Steven isn’t sure how long it lasts when slowly he’s laid on his back. Martin remains on top of him, working at his belt, his fly. He gets it down, and he’s touching Steven. The strokes are just firm enough to leave Steven mewling. Their lips are pressing together again as Martin continues to stroke. Steven bucks up into that hand, his eyes shut as he lets go in the pleasure. Moaning Martin’s name as he pulls away for a breath, the look of pleasure stretched out on all of his facial features. Those kisses trace onto his neck, his collar bone, and Steven can’t help but beg for more.

Martin’s hand lets go of his erection, and Steven gives an agitated groan. He begins to sit up, pressing back into the sand on his elbows when suddenly he’s floored again. Those hot kisses trail down his chest, over his sternum, and down to his stomach. Steven sucks a breath in, hands, gripping between Martin’s hair and the blanket. “Oh god, yes, please, _s’il vous plaît…”_

His legs are spread and he can see Martin arch his back between them. He doesn’t remember when his pants completely disappeared, and he certainly doesn’t care. Not now, not ever, not when Martin St. Louis is just as equally naked – not that he can remember that happening, either – and between his legs, and oh _god_ that mouth. A secret he’d been hiding all this time, which Steven maybe subconsciously figured was there all long. Martin’s licking up his length, and Steven can’t help but pant, and moan, and beg. Fingers sinking into his hips, holding him against the blanket, but Steven bucks up anyway. Sweat beads on their skin, but Steven hardly notices. So focused on that pleasure. Another plea for more, and suddenly, Martin is taking him into that mouth, sucking him off.

Oh fuck, Steven thinks, moaning, unable to form words or coherent thoughts. He’s not going to last like this, not at all. Martin’s just barely formed a rhythm as he bobs his head up and down, and Steven is already starting to feel the pleasure course in his veins. That sensation building, nestling in his groin—

_“Oh fuck, I’m gonna–”_

Steven opens his eyes just in time to feel the warm, sticky, wet patch spread over a small part of his shorts. Awake with a gasp that quickly turns into a groan. He can feel the blood still pulsating, aftershocks hitting him as the embarrassments flushes his cheeks. This can’t possibly have happened. He hasn’t had a wet dream since before his freshmen year of high school, let alone one now, at age twenty-one while playing for the NHL, to the thoughts of being sucked off by Martin St. Louis. But it certainly feels like he has, and when he checks again, the wet spot on his shorts is more prominent than ever.

 

_ Yeah yeah, and I’m alright.  
I took a sip of something poisoned but I’ll hold on tight. _

5.  
He spends a longer time in the shower than necessary. Washing away shame and silently thanking God that he lives alone. He only decides to shut off the water when he hears his phone buzz for what he’s pretty sure is the third time. After a quick dry, he ties the towel around his waist and picks the gadget up, scrolling through it. To his surprise – and possible dismay, he thinks, as a small feeling of dread sinks into his stomach again – two of the three messages are from Martin. The third is from Nate, asking if he needs a box of Tampax. He rolls his eyes, and clicks on the thread of messages from the older man. 

_R U ok?_ reads the first. _Give me call when u can_ says the second. Either Martin has impeccable timing, or the universe is playing a trick on him.

Steven decides to pull on a fresh pair of boxers and gym shorts before plopping down on his bed. He takes a breath, and then clicks a few buttons before the phone signals that it’s dialing a recipient on the other end. It isn’t until Martin picks up with a happy “Hey, Steven!” that he realizes he forgot to start breathing again.

“Oh hey, I got your texts. What’s up?” there’s a little bit of static on the other line. 

“Coach said you left sick, half of us didn’t even see you walk out. Something about bad chicken…?” there’s a pause in his voice before he adds, “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, I’m cool.” He can’t even force himself to elaborate on the lie.

“Just weren’t feeling it?” comes the gentle response. Steven feels himself smiling just from the sound of his voice. 

“Nah. I um…fell asleep for a little bit.” He’ll leave that part lie there. “Everything’s okay now though, but…shouldn’t—shouldn’t you be at Vinny’s?”

“Well, I was, but then I wanted to check on you and see if everything was alright. You know we went over some tape from our last regular season Bruin games, and we talked about Chara and what we’re up against with Chara in the playoffs…it’s just weird because you had said you were concerned about him! I really don’t even know why…” Martin’s voice trails. Steven hears most of it, but he’s fixated on the first sentence.

“You were going to check on me? What, like, you mean come by my place.”

“Well I thought about it, but I wanted to talk to you first. If you want, I can. If you’re just taking it easy, I mean, I understand. I thought you might’ve been sleeping, and it sounds like you were—”

“I’m fine now, really, I’m fine!” he interjects. “Feel free to stop over whenever you get the chance.”

 

_ You were pacing I was insecure.  
Slip and fall, I got the calls from the prison I've been living in. _

6.

His face lights up when he opens the door to his condo, and Martin presses forward with a steaming container of soup. 

“It’s just noodle soup,” he explains, holding up the container, gesturing, “I figured that if you had bad chicken then you’d probably be done with it for a while. So I just brought the noodles.” In a way, he seems proud of himself, and Steven beams. 

“Thank you. Honestly, I do need to eat something.” Again, telling the truth. He had been planning to make something after his run, but since then he’s been more than a little preoccupied. Instead, all he’s managed is a protein shake in between the time he was able to hang up the phone and throw on a shirt until this very moment now with Martin at his front door. He welcomes him in, taking the soup. 

“You mind if I eat in front of you?” 

“No, man. Go for it.” 

They wind up on the couch after Steven detours into the kitchen to grab himself a spoon. He’s slurping hungrily at the noodles when he tells himself to relax. The average person with food poisoning would not be this excited about his or her next meal. Regardless, he devours the soup quickly while putting on a mindless reality show from TruTV.

“So what’s the deal with Chara?” He asks, breaking the silence.

“Oh? Him.” Martin turns his head to look at Steven. “He’s not their strongest player, but he’ll work aggressively to divert us from the guys who are. So we need to always be in a constant look out of where he is and what he’s doing, every time his shift’s out on the nice…” His voice trails, and he shrugs, but Steven can’t help but feel like there’s more. He tilts his head a little, shrugging.

“…and?”

“And that’s it,” Martin nods at him, imitating the same glance. But that’s not it, and Steven knows it. Suddenly, it feels that if he didn’t have food poisoning before, he might have traces of it now. Martin’s giving him a look, one that translates to Steven as a high reading on a bullshit-o-meter.

“And you’re a smart man, Steven, and probably the most talented player we have. You’ve played the Bruins several times already this year. Why is this a surprise to you now? They haven’t drastically changed their game plans or play tactics at all in the first two rounds of the playoffs. Why all this concern all of a sudden? Just have confidence in yourself that you can do this!” 

Steven nods. He does know this. This isn’t really a surprise to him at all, it’s a cop-out. But hell if he’s going to admit the other things that have been on his mind; things that he didn’t even have a full grasp on until his beloved captain and hero of the Tampa Bay area was whispering about him in front of very face, as if he wasn’t even there. No, he couldn’t bring it up. He wouldn’t. Not after the day he had. Or the dream he had. Hell, he’s barely admitted anything to himself.

The fact of the matter is that Martin is right there, and they’re every bit as close now as they started off in his dream. But there’s no blanket now, and there certainly is no sunset beach. 

“What else is bothering you?” Martin asks, this time more gently.

“Nothing,” Steven shrugs.

Steven’s couch isn’t terribly huge, but they’re sitting close. Dangerously close. He leans down to put the empty soup container and spoon on the coffee table in front of them, and when he sits back up, Martin seems closer than ever. Closer than the times they’ve huddled together on the Forum bench, waiting for their line to switch out onto the ice. Closer than the time they sat at the bar in New York together, drunk with their arms slung around each other’s shoulders and waists. Maybe they aren’t, but this time it feels like they are.

“You can trust me,” Martin says. His face is etched with concern. So much that it’s almost tangible.

Steven can’t even take it anymore. He’s leaning forward, pressing his mouth against Martin’s. The moment he realizes he’s doing it, he expects to be pushed away. To be hit and scorned and told he’s disgusting. Vile. He feels Martin’s hand close around his bicep, and he knows it must be coming. Any second now…when instead he feels Martin slide in closer.

It’s a much sloppier kiss than the one he can remember in his dream. And when they finally pull away, he can feel himself panting, the back of his hand coming to his mouth and wiping away a bit of dampness there from his lips. He wants to look away, but he can’t help stare at the older man.

“How long have you wanted to do that?” Martin says it with a soft smile.

“…I don’t even know,” he forces the response.

Martin brushes back Steven’s hair for a moment. The smile is still there. “It’s okay,” he says. “Don’t be ashamed.”

“You too?” Steven mutters. Suddenly, he’s feeling embarrassed. Martin didn’t push him away, didn’t tell him to stop…but still, he feels like he shouldn’t be asking this. A kiss should feel natural, and this isn’t that.

Martin’s smile widens, “I won’t say I was expecting that, just then. But I’d be lying if I told you it was a complete surprise. Or if I told you I didn’t like it.”

Usually Martin is good with words, and it isn’t that he’s particularly bad with them here. It’s just that they’re such a long way off from what Steven wishes they were. He blinks his eyes for a moment, allowing the whole moment to process. “Wait…so you didn’t hate it?”

“Not at all.” Steven realizes he’s still starting when Martin adds, “and I wouldn’t mind doing it again, now that I’m a little more prepared.”

Steven isn’t sure if he simply nodded or actually gave him a verbal response in agreement. But he does know that this time, it’s Martin who leans in against him, kissing him, and this time it’s much more wholesome kiss. Eyes shut, small sounds omitting from each man as they adjust the pace, the tempo. Steven lets his arms drape around Martin’s neck, fingertips tracing absent-mindedly on his back. He tilts his head, letting Martin kiss deeper. They both come up for air, and it isn’t until the third kiss that Steven’s opening his mouth, letting that tongue slide in, playing against his. When they separate, exclusively this time, Martin’s hand his tracing the fine blond hairs along the side of Steven’s cheek. He doesn’t remember if it’s been there this entire time.

“Look at me,” Martin whispers softly. Steven obliges, unaware that he was even looking down. 

“Yeah?”

“I want to take our time with this, okay? I’m not playing ‘sleazy-hockey-player’, and I’m certainly not playing ‘one-night-stand.’ Not now, not with you, not during playoffs. Okay?”

A smile spreads across Steven’s face as he nods. “Okay.” And truly, it makes sense. He does want to be focused on the upcoming challenge, as unintimidating as Zdeno Chara truly is. Boston didn’t make this this far into the playoffs without some measure of preparation and skill. And both Steven and Martin know this better than anyone. Still, the words don’t stop him from laying his head against Martin’s shoulder. And they certainly don’t stop the large grin from spreading across his face.


End file.
